“Not at all.” Emily drew the shawl she’d been lent around herself. “May I see him?”
“You can, but there ain’t much to see.”
Perhaps not, but Emily would rather be present when Oliver awoke, so she could tell him the story they had concocted for the sake of their kindly hosts. They were honest, God-fearing people who would be scandalised at the prospect of sheltering two unmarried people in the same room.
Guilt clawed at her stomach at the thought of deceiving the people who had taken them in, whose clothes she wore on her back.
“There now,” she heard Mrs Chambers say to her husband behind her. “You leave them be.”
Emily shut the door on the family and stared at the bed. The way Oliver lay, sprawled across the pillow with his hair wildly mussed, made him appear as though he had tumbled into bed after some debauchery.
Someone, likely Mr Chambers, had changed him into clean, dry bedclothes that hid his poor arm.
For a long moment, she stared down into his face, relaxed and unconscious. The golden stubble on his chin, the chaos of his curly hair. She’d always assumed curls were angelic, but there was nothing angelic about this man. Despite his youth, there were still sharp edges to him.
An idle lord, yes, but not one without his own form of bitterness.
She dragged a chair closer, the room seeming as though it was spinning. The nausea in her stomach still hadn’t eased, and she closed her eyes for a second.
When she opened them again, she found Oliver watching her with an expression of consternation. A headache pulsed at her temples.
He attempted to rise, and she pushed at his shoulder. “Be still or you’ll hurt yourself.”
He blinked, gaze a little cloudy, and eventually focused back on her. “I was rather hoping it was all a bad dream,” he said, witha return to the slightly dry drawl she’d become accustomed to. “I presume your presence, and the fact I’m mildly inebriated, is a sign that it is not.”
“How is your head?” Emily asked. “Mr Chambers said you would wake with a bad head.”
Mr Beaumont snorted. “Perhaps if one never drinks. He allowed me only a few swallows.”
“I take it you are accustomed to a great deal more.”
He looked at her steadily. “If you are inclined towards judgement, I suggest saving it for another time.”
“I hardly see the need to argue with you,” she said, smoothing out the unfamiliar skirt. “Now we’re here, in this condition, there’s not much we can do but make the best of it.”
His gaze landed on the side of her face. “How do you feel?”
“Perfectly well, thank you.”
He snorted, but instead of responding, pushed himself into an upright position despite her protests. “Where is the truckle bed? Have you requested one?”
“Not for you,” she said calmly.
“As the gentleman, it is my prerogative to bear the discomfort.”
“Oh, is that what you mean by ‘gentleman’?”
“And here I was thinking you wouldn’t argue with me,” he returned. Despite herself, she felt a smile twitch at her lips.
“Mrs Chambers asked how we met, and I concocted a story of you courting me and us marrying in a perfectly sensible way after the reading of the banns.”
“How very proper of us.”
“I thought that was better than claiming a runaway marriage.”
“And such a story would be unnecessary, seeing as you are of age,” he added. “Very well. How long have we been married?”
“Not long. Weeks, perhaps? I said nothing about where we live,” she added, feeling suddenly defensive. “So we can claim wherever you choose.”
